


red

by emmyeccentric



Series: electric colors [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, Season 1, Synesthesia, electric-couple prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-11 22:55:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11724300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmyeccentric/pseuds/emmyeccentric
Summary: “I see the truth of you,” she says, and the heat of anger seeps up his throat.or, the sound of a snapping trap, the smell of sweat and musk, the taste of rare beef, and the slickness of blood between your fingers.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> the inaugural prompt blog fic.

She’s incredibly bold. It balances on the threshold of what he can digest, but he manages. He does, after all, pay her handsomely for the “perfect honesty” she uses so effectively.

“I see the truth of you,” she says, and the heat of anger seeps up his throat. Is she shallowly betraying the intimate integrity she claims, or is she actually brave enough to cut him open and so pragmatically dig through the viscera of his mind?

Residual annoyance blends with amusement and he fights a smile. He too knows her truth, knows how she looks with crimson stains up her sleeves like red tide on a sea, remembers the spatter contrasting the blue of her eyes. He can smell the bloodlust bolstering the jasmine and bergamot of her perfume, the same scent that dirties the softness of Abigail’s rose shampoo. Bedelia wears it better, carries it well, the same way some women carry a thickness about their hips.

Yet _he’s_ the one in the person suit. He’s not a lascivious man, but her costuming is lingerie, her scarlet wrath delicate, but bright, hiding just underneath the outer sheath; ostensibly shaping her keen and precise exterior. Breathable cotton masking blood-colored lace. Light separating dark. He could teach her so well to marry the two, despite the challenges her concrete boundaries present. He swallows his thoughts with intent.

“Red or white?’, she offers.

“I think something pink, don’t you?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late for the prompt blog, I've been going through some intense personal stuff, but I'm back.

He’s wiser to know that she let him into her home than for pleasant company. Will Graham’s burning brain has burned a hole in his person suit, and she wants to poke her perfectly-manicured finger through it to further weaken the threads. It’s admirable how close she’s willing to get without breaking. She hasn’t said it out loud, but she’s toed the darkness of mind and is only starting to become aware of the hell beneath it’s surface. And yet, she asked to break bread with him. Of course he’s impressed.

She greets him in a blouse that reflects off her ashen hair like bloody footprints in the snow, and he intends to follow them to their end. Frankly, he doesn’t know her prerogatives, or just exactly the extent of her cognizance. He’d never admit his own ignorance. Only one other has managed this in the past, and despite that, he still revels in the cricket songs.

Her table is surprisingly welcoming for that of a recluse, and it’s perfect for the spread. Veal: the bleeding, buttery reminder that not even innocence can conquer mortality. You should sate your sins before you end up smoked, drizzled in sauce vert. Abigail knew it; he lives by it, and he thinks his therapist has conveniently started to realize it. She discovered just exactly what she was capable of months ago, and now he just needs to teach her how to use that potential. Perhaps.

She cuts into her portion and he sees the alliance being forged, red-hot and glowing. She hums in appreciation and down comes the blacksmith’s hammer. The good doctor is attractive to anyone, but watching the woman eat, her sensuality is palpable. Given her taste in wine, it’s no surprise she is as involved in the _sensation_ of eating as he is. Honestly, he couldn’t ask for a better therapist. The pinot noir has stained her lips and the image of her mouth sucking warm and wet around him flashes curiously in his brain.

“They’re starting to see your pattern,” her warning reveals more perceptiveness than he anticipated, and he’s seething. Her voice is unwavering, there is no tremble or tightness that betrays mortal fear that he’s adopted as a personal motivation so many times before. She’s isolated because she fears herself more than anyone else; she’s particularly unfazed by him in this way. It so perfectly complements Will Graham’s obsession. What a morsel of an idea.

 She eats, they end up talking about the past, something he’s sure they both weren’t expecting. They aren’t sentimental. But her sentiments, her nostalgia, supplements the leverage against him, if she were to ever need to use it. They talk about their young debaucheries and her cheeks glow pink, letting him get a glance underneath the ice. Eventually, she slowly places her napkin on the table. “Well,” she says softly, “this was delicious.” She gets up and he trails her to the cabinet in the living room.

“Thank you, I told you should accept the invitation to one of my get togethers.”

She hums flatly. “Maybe. Would you like a nightcap?”

He smirks. “I would prefer to get home intact.”

“I would hope so,” she says in tandem with the icing clinking in her glass. The amber liquid blankets the cold blocks. “Excuse me,” she murmurs, and returns with a jar of maraschino cherries. She notes his raised eyebrows and close lipped smile. “I wanted something sweeter.”

The red sphere sinks to the bottom of the glass. “You must reconsider your feelings about Will Graham,” she says, sipping. The wine and the bourbon have painted her face. “Be _careful.”_ Her tongue trips on the last syllable, almost indiscernibly. She’s taken more to potables since the attack, and he catalogues the thought.

If he wrapped his hands around her throat in this moment, she couldn’t fight back.

Her fingers dive in to pluck the cherry from her highball and she grabs it by the stem. “Remember? Right before I completed Second Year? We were in the Neuro unit.”

“I only gave into your whims because I was delirious after a 48-hour rotation,” he sighs, finally takes a seat.

“I can still do it, you know,” she challenges. She bites the fruit like a jugular, placing the stem gently on her tongue. She maneuvers her lips just so, and arousal catches him again by surprise.

Upon her presentation of a perfectly symmetrical square knot, she cocks a sharp eyebrow in his direction.

“I believe you’re drunk, Doctor. What happened to maintenance of boundaries?” When he stands, he towers over her, but the oaky sweet smell of the alcohol lingers on her.

“Ours have always had a few cracks and weak spots,” she leans her upper torso forward as they stand face to face.

He imagines kissing her then, remembers what it feels like to work her bottom lip between his teeth. Until she steps back.

“Hands off Will Graham. Enough blood has been spilled.”

 _Not really_ , he thinks dismissively, and bids her goodnight.

 

**Author's Note:**

> stay tuned


End file.
